At all times of the day Keith was enjoined to keep quiet—­because his mother was not well, or because of the neighbours, or just because “nice children should not make a noise”—­but it was only after his father’s return home that these injunctions must be taken quite seriously.  The father’s appearance brought an instantaneous change in the atmosphere of the place, the boy strove instinctly to be as little noticeable as possible.  If his mercurial temperament lured him into temporary forgetfulness, a single stern word from the father sent him back into silence and the refuge of his own corner—­or into bed.

But the more he considered and conceded the unlikeliness of the scene projected by some part of his mind with such persistency, the more passionately he craved it to be a real memory of something that had really happened to himself.

Perhaps it was merely a dream, as Granny had suggested.  Perhaps it was something he had wished....

Anyhow, he did wish that his father would let him come a little closer to himself at times—­not in the same way his mother did, but as he did in the dream—­or whatever it was....

Once more he fell into a deep study of when he had begun to remember so hard that he could still remember it.  Out of this he was awakened by his mother’s voice: 

“What is the matter, Keith?”

“I don’t know what to play,” he replied out of policy, as it might bring him something either in the way of a diversion or a treat.  There were still some of mother’s delectable ginger snaps left over from the Christmas baking.

“Your soldiers are right in front of you,” his mother said in a voice holding out no hope.

So Keith returned to the tin soldiers that were his most cherished toys—­perhaps because they drew fewer protests from above than anything else, as being least conductive to outbursts of youthful vivacity.  Judging by the earnest attention with which he manoeuvred them on his own little table or, in moments of special dispensation, on the collapsible dining table placed against the wall between the two windows in the living-room, he ought to have ended as a general.

III

All through his life Keith retained a queer inclination to arrange furniture very precisely at right angles to the wall as close to it as possible.  It was a direct outcome of his first and most deeply rooted impressions, received in that parental living-room, where every inch of space had been carefully calculated, and where the smallest nook was filled by a chair, or a footstool, or some other minor object.  In later years he often wondered how a single room of modest proportions could hold so much of furniture and of life.

It was bedroom and study, dining-room and nursery, workroom and parlour.  There the morning toilet was made, and there his first lessons were learned.  There the father did his reading, of which he was very fond, and there the mother sewed, darned, embroidered, wrote letters, gave household orders, told fairy tales, and received visitors.  There the simple daily meals were served for all but Granny, who clung obstinately to the kitchen, and there friends were feasted and cards played at nameday and birthday parties.  And there three people slept every night.